


The Cross

by Erring_and_umming



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 12:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30055755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erring_and_umming/pseuds/Erring_and_umming
Summary: Owen contemplates the relationship that he has with Curt and whether it can continue under the weight of his own guilt. But there's always something holding him back.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	The Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Well.....hi
> 
> I just wrote this on a whim because writing something long is great fun and I have plans but DANG waiting for these two idiots to get together is HARD. (if you don't know what I'm talking about I'm writing a long-form slow burn thing which you can find here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29812452/chapters/73347075 )
> 
> ANYWAY, you can kind of count this as apart of the 'Of an Eastern Persuasion' multiverse if you would like! A missing scene, the special features disc! If you will!

**Feb 11 th 1956**

I’m going to tell you a story.

At the church, there hangs a cross, a large one full of chips from years of use and filled with whispers. People come up to it, heads bowed, and they kiss it, telling it their sins, and it keeps their secrets.

One day, that cross met a man so full of sin that ate him all up, from the inside gnawing at every part of him that he thought had the potential to be good. Now, what we believe to be a sin is immaterial within this tale, as the cross’s own understanding of such things was dictated by the men who made him, who built the church that ensconced him. The rules were quite strict, as we can all gather.

But with this man, there was a sin for every scar. This man was a murderer.

He had reasons, of course. All murderers have reasons, and some are better than others. But it was not, and still to this day _is not,_ the cross's job to judge. Its job was to listen.

He was British and lilting and oh so guilty. Filled to the brim with it, and it tumbled from his lips – all the secrets. None of them were to do with murder but love, secreted, and sepulchred behind shame and doors and curtains and lingering gazes. He kissed the cross and left.

Walking down the streets filled with chill, uncaring for the busybodies that moved around him and caught in the currents of capitalism that seemed to be the word on everyone’s lip, he pondered his options.

He walked past the newsstand, grey papers fluttered in the wind reading: “Cambridge Spies: Finally Spotted in Moscow.”

They had been there for years.

MI6 had done a terrible cover-up job, but it had lasted a while.

His eyes found the road once more; he watched his leather-clad feet move across the black flagstones; they knew where they were going, and so he let them move on their own. His mind wandered, and the divot between his eyebrows deepened as his fingers danced across the air by his side, a subtle physical tick that belied a memory of a beloved song.

_...I found my thrill…_

The street came into view. This was the end for the man – he was sure of it. The certainty was a stone lodged right into his cranium, born from years of calcified madness, and wanting. It burrowed now, deep into his nervous system, leaving his body aflame.

This, my dear readers is a metaphor. Do not be worried he was not actually on fire.

_...On Blueberry Hill…_

The house, the place he so desperately wanted to run from, was just ahead. This was the place he spent the least time in, even though he had somehow found the building in his possession. His mother had never told him that she owned the property until she had communicated it from beyond the grave, within the small professional print of her will. For him to raise a family, she had said.

It had been bombed to hell in the Blitz. It had taken him a long time to get round to rebuilding it.

_...When I found you…_

What would she think of him now?

He unlocked the door with the softest of clicks. The lock was new, you see, and so it was all smooth sailing on entry. The hallway greeted him with a silence that oozed from the walls. He had only his heartbeat to keep him company, _thump-thump-thumping_ in his chest.

_...The moon stood still…_

He wandered, taking his time, through the house, listening to it breathe each breath as the wind whistled past and the sound of traffic crawled through the cracks in the windows. The lounge passed him, the bathroom next, the guest bedroom, and the floorboard creaked their hellos.

_...On Blueberry Hill…_

He came to the master bedroom.

The door was closed. A great brown barricade.

He reached for the door handle. Palm sweat-slicked, he nearly lost grip of the cool metal. He tried again, and it slowly swung open.

_...And lingered until_ …

The light snoring reached his ears now, brushing against the shell of his ear, leaving every hair standing to attention. In the whiteness of the sheets, swirled around like the peaks and eddies of the ice-cream they had shared the previous night, was Curt. Still sleeping soundly.

Something in him melted at the sight of Curt’s hair askew, and his face smushed into the pillow. He had somehow moved away from the fingers of golden light that streamed into the room and was hidden in the grey shadows.

He kicked off his shoes, letting his socked feet slide across the floorboards as not to disturb the other man. The smell of their different colognes still remained in the air twisting around him as he came to the side of the bed. He leaned forward and plucked the cream coloured paper of the letter he had left this morning from his pillow. He tucked it away in his back pocket.

_...My dream came true…_

He glanced back at Curt, meeting two mossy green irises still caught in the last foggy moments of slumber.

“O-Owen?” the younger man yawned, rubbing his forehead blearily.

“Yes, love,” Owen whispered, “You know you really should’ve woken up when I came in the house. What kind of spy are you?”

“A shit one, apparently,” Curt grumbled and rolled over, facing Owen with a pout. “Where were you?” Owen climbed into the bed, the note burning in his pocket as he brought the other man into his arms, folding him into his embrace. The silence encased both of them – answer enough. “You need to stop going there, O.”

The sigh ruffled the back of Curt’s hair. “Why?”

“You know why. It’s going to drive you mad.”

_...The wind in the willow played…_

“Curt—”

“Don’t do this again, Owen. Christ!” Extracting himself, Curt writhed around in the bed before standing; now caught fully in the sun’s rays. Owen found himself blushing at the thoughts that whirred behind his eyes – angels and singing. All things for a Hepburn film, not something to be sequestered between two spies.

“You know what I’m going to say,” Owen muttered, “So why drag this out any further?”

“And you know what I’m going to say. So why bother being a massive dick about it?”

Owen pulled at wrinkles in the sheet. He whispered, “I’m really sorry, Curt.”

_..._ _Love’s sweet melody_ … 

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Curt seethed.

Now reader, at this moment, we can acknowledge that there was tension between the two men, and I think many of us understand what is about to occur.

Owen pulled the letter from his pocket and held it out to Curt – an olive branch.

Curt slapped it out of his hand, and it fluttered to the ground, Owen’s looping scrawl now visible to them both. “You were going to end this with a letter! Was I ever going to see you again?”

“I didn’t, though. I thought you deserved—”

“I don’t think you know what I deserve, and I don’t think you know what you are owed. What the world owes you— us! Can’t you just let yourself have this? I lo—”

The world was too full of air for Owen, who shot out a, “Don’t!”

The room hummed, strings snapping between the two as they sized each other up.

“Why not?” Curt asked, crossing his arms in challenge, his cheeks reddened and brow furrowed. 

“You know why.”

“It seems I don’t know much.” Curt walked to the cupboard and shrugged on a shirt; ripping it over his head, he continued, “You know, I thought maybe you’d fucking learnt all that love crap is _bullshit,_ Owen. They’ll only love you if you do exactly what they say when they say it. They’ll never love us, not really. They _hate us._ They _hate_ you!”

The words slapped against Owen, leaving him blinking in shock as Curt stood before him, breath coming in short pants, the emotional tirade obviously leaving him winded. The other spy must have seen some of the hurt that radiated within Owen, a life-long ache, as his face softened, and he took a step forward, coming to his knees in front of him.

“Carvour, they could _never_ love you like I do. I would take on God and shoot him for all I care if only to prove that his opinion doesn’t matter. What kind of God is he anyway, huh? Giving kids cancer. Not my God, that’s for fucking sure.”

Hot tears were running shameful tracks down Owen’s face; he went to wipe them away, his face turned towards the window, to the flurry of rain that slapped against the glass, but Curt beat him to it, thumbs swiping the water away.

_...But all of those vows you made…_

“C-Curt,” Owen sobbed now; they wracked through him in hot waves that left him shivering. “You can’t ask that of me.”

Curt dragged his thumb against Owen’s cheek in a soothing swirl. “I’m not asking anything of you just— I just hate seeing you like this, every Sunday is the same, if you’re not down there you’re all quiet and I hate that…that you feel this way because of us.”

Owen pitched forward, his cries softening at his face made contact with the crook of Curt’s shoulder, which nearly immediately dampened with his tears. He felt a hand come to the top of his head, stroking the hair that, fingers parting his hair and scratching at his scalp. The warmth that diffused from Curt’s body left him feeling more solid, each breath less laboured.

“Curt, I’m really so—”

“Don’t, baby. Come on, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have yelled; I should’ve known better. We’ll get through this together. We’ll never be apart.” 

Owen wasn’t quite sure it was true, but he chose to believe it anyway.

_...Were never to be_ …

**Author's Note:**

> OUCH! I come from a pretty religious background (I myself ain't religious after...well you can imagine) but I really do feel for Owen here! 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQQCPrwKzdo (oh here is the link to Blueberry Hill if anyone is interested!) 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Come for a yarn in the comments!


End file.
